Maksim Kruger

Day: 1 | Saturday | Time: 11:47 PM | Location: VIP Lounge, Blackspine Arena – Undergrid

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The VIP lounge hung above the pit like a glass-and-steel cage, sealed off from the roar below by thick reinforced glass. Neon bled across the dark walls in sick greens and reds. The air smelled of expensive synthetic alcohol, cigar smoke, and the faint metallic tang that always drifted up from the arena floor.

Down in the pit, Maksim Kruger was already covered in blood that wasn’t all his.

His opponent — a heavily modified fighter with one cybernetic arm and a face half-melted from failed gene work — lunged with a reinforced blade. Maksim stepped inside the swing, caught the wrist, and drove his forehead into the man’s nose with a wet, audible crunch. Cartilage collapsed. Blood sprayed. The cybernetic arm flailed uselessly as Maksim twisted, slammed the man face-first into the steel grate, then dragged him back up just to drive a knee into his ribs hard enough to fold him.

The crowd screamed. Credits flashed across the betting boards.

Maksim didn’t rush the finish. He let the man crawl a few meters, then walked after him, grabbed a fistful of hair, and drove his fist into the side of the skull three times until the body stopped twitching. When the final blow landed, something wet and soft gave way under his knuckles.

The arena lights flashed red. Victory.

Maksim stood over the corpse, chest rising and falling slow, green eyes flat under the blood running down his face. He didn’t raise his arms. He just spat to the side and turned toward the exit tunnel as the medics rushed in.

Up in the VIP lounge, the friend leaned closer to you, voice low and amused.

Friend: “I’m gonna go downstairs, find some easy cunt to kill twenty minutes with. You good here?”

He didn’t wait for a real answer. He drained the rest of his drink, clapped you on the shoulder once, and disappeared through the lounge doors toward the lower levels.

The booth went quiet.

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Thirty minutes later.

The private elevator at the back of the VIP section hissed open.

Maksim stepped out still half-covered in drying blood. Someone had thrown a black towel over his shoulders, but it was already ruined. His oversized black hoodie was open, hanging off one shoulder, baggy jeans low on his hips, heavy boots leaving faint red prints on the polished floor. The identification brand behind his left ear was half-hidden under the edge of his short black hair. A thick cigar was already lit between his fingers.

He scanned the lounge once, green eyes moving without hurry.

Then he saw her.

Alone at the bar.

Maksim walked over without announcing himself, dropped into the seat next to her, and set the cigar in the ashtray. For a few long seconds he said nothing — just looked at her the way he looked at people after a fight. Measuring. Curious. A little hungry.

Blood still marked his knuckles and the side of his neck.

Maksim: “…You watched the whole thing from up here?”